Warped
by Dizzydodo
Summary: Taking place in the hours before Marlow's arrival, this is a preface to Timothy Findler's "Headhunter" wherein Kurtz finds a world as damaged as himself.Written for creative writing class; criticism would be appreciated. M for violence.


He laid his head gently on the pillow and gazed into the darkness. The strains of an old lullaby floated gently through his sleep-fogged mind: "Go to sleep mummy's little baby, the devil will come and get you if you don't."

Oh No; wrong. The devil would get him if he _did._ It was an unforgiving place this jungle, but at least it was honest in its brutality, not like the 'civilized' world. There were predators here, but then there were predators all the world over of every shape, size, and species.

Rupert Kurtz had called this desolate outpost home for many years now, many lonely, desolate years and there seemed to be no hope of redemption even now. Kurtz knew, in the deeper-most reaches of his heart, that he did not deserve to be saved. Still, he was plagued by vain hopes that someday he would be rescued from this wilderness and recognized for his brilliant mind and ruthless cunning. Yet the years trickled by with nary a glimmer of a bright future, only the never-ending shadow of The Dark Continent.

Sleep tugged at his weary eyes and once more he dragged himself back from the edge of unconsciousness, banishing the ghost of sleep.

The darkness smothered his senses, smothered _him_, there was no escape, neither surrender nor quarter given; it was a sinister darkness this, playing games with his fancy. Kurtz imagined that he could see all manner of terrible beasts lurking at the foot of his berth awaiting the chance unwary moment to devour him.

No. These were childish fantasies, he well knew that the true monster was man, and in man was found the only true blackness: sin. Oh, but what a wonderful thing was sin. Why deny the mind's compulsion? Was it not all the more beautiful to yield and accept his weaknesses, make them strengths?

That was the true nightmare that so haunted him; his guilt, his shame, had long since deserted him, leaving him hollow and impervious to remorse.

There was nothing that could cause Kurtz' heart to quicken, no cruelty that he would flinch at, neither deed he would hesitate to commit. Life had become monotonous and predictable without even the pain to lighten his burden of the soul. Baptized in blood, drowning in complacency, could there be anything in this rotten world that would satisfy him? No.

Kurtz smirked as his mother's words came to him once again, soothing and quiet as she read to him from the Bible, praying it would cleanse his filthy, wicked soul:

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity". Yes, that rung true. That alone rang true in an otherwise false world.

All was vanity, why fight the truth, why try to overcome oneself when only through acceptance of evil could one truly be free?

"This above all, to thine own self be true" as Polonius would have it; and why not? It would lighten his otherwise dull existence.

Kurtz shifted, he would defeat this fatigue yet; he had to if he wished to survive.

He stopped for a moment to hear the silence and count his heartbeats, measure his breath. In, out, in again until gradually the little ditty faded to a background hum and at last sleep claimed him.

Darkness; darkness and screams pervaded his sleeping mind: the screams of children, women, grown men; pained howls that caused him to catch his breath in terror.

And now he could see- blood, knives, instruments of torture long vanished from human awareness brought to life in his mind's eye. The people, hardly more than animals in their pain; submerged in suffering, stretching their mutilated hands to him pleadingly, grasping at his shirt and begging an answer. Wondering why they suffered, looking to him for an answer.

He had no answer for them, could only watch as they fell to their knees, finally dumb with agony. He couldn't take this much longer, there had to be a way to escape- this was a dream, only a nightmare.

Kurtz jerked awake, breathing heavily, sucking air greedily into his lungs; no longer the shrill screams, only a dead silence.

Kurtz felt his eyelids falling once again and chose to concede defeat gracefully; the devils had visited him once this night, they would not come again.

Yet now he heard it again, high and keening wails slicing through his conscious mind. He began to struggle, striving to escape only to find himself drowning once again.

It was different this time; he was no longer the passive observer come to watch their suffering and torment. He _was _the torturer. Kurtz started violently from his sleep and still the sobbing and wailing continued unabated; he struggled to rise. Failed. If only… if only he could turn his head to the light the nightmare would end, he was sure of it.

His body would not obey; weakly he flailed, feeling his heartbeat increase with each moment of rising panic. His breathing grew harsh and ragged as he forced himself to lift his head, turn it to the right.

Finally his fast dimming eyes caught the glimmer of light from the candle on the bedside table, and he grew still once more as the vision faded. Weakness seeped through his bones and this time Kurtz yielded to it without fear, knowing the demons would not come for him, because now he knew.

He knew what they asked of him. He would obey, if only for the sake of peace. "I will do it," he whispered into the blessedly close shadows.

"Only give me a night and I will do it." It seemed to him as if the trees outside his window murmured their agreement, and the wind sighed its resignation, knowing that there would be no salvation for this one at least.

Rupert Kurtz reached out to cup the candle's flame, snuffed it out to be swallowed by the once ominous blackness- now his only friend.

Marlow trudged through the forsaken wilderness, ignoring the pitiless sun beating down upon his unprotected head.

Now at last he was to meet the infamous Mr. Kurtz; a rude fellow by all accounts and a brute, or so said those that had met him. Still, after so many years on this cursed continent who would condemn him? Such a long time spent in solitude did strange things to a man.

Marlow breathed in deeply, released the breath. The air was clear here at least; even if the heat was maddening. He would have loved to be back aboard his ship, but there were courtesies to be observed, and he was madly curious to meet the strange Mr. Kurtz.

The natives ahead were talking quickly, glancing nervously about them. What was it now? Had they lost their wits or were they simply in awe of this Kurtz?

Marlow would have bet his coat on the former; it wouldn't be much of a loss anyway.

He stalked forward, cutting in to stand before them: "I'll go on from here; you head back to the dinghy."

The two gazed at him, stupefied. Becoming a little irritated he repeated his words: "I'll stay, go back to the boat," punctuating each word with an impatient gesture.

The two shared a glance, and one rested a hand on his arm. "Mabaya Kabisa… Bad, very bad."

Marlow looked from one to the next. He knew the meaning of the words, not "Very Bad" but "evil terror." No doubt they wanted more coin for escorting him this far.

Deciding that he had no more time for argument, Marlow started forward leaving his guides gazing worriedly after him.

He had not gone far when the air began to change, become foul. It smelled of something that he had had many occasions to witness: death.

Now sprinting through the jungle he tried to control his rising sense of helplessness, continuing forward though everything in him screamed "Turn back!"

The hut was just ahead of him, and in front of it… in front of it stood row upon row of decorated spears, each with a head upon it. How many hours would it take to kill so many and arrange them so carefully?

Marlow vomited, gasped in a breath, vomited again.

He had to get away from here, summon help. Who could have done something so terrible?

Marlow clenched a callused hand around his pistol and walked backwards, back the way he had come- but what of Kurtz? Where was Kurtz? It could not have been he that… no. That was not possible.

Marlow dashed forward, seized the door by its handle before he could lose his nerve and yanked.

Empty. Not a soul in sight.

Rupert Kurtz blinked at the suddenly bright light. Where a mere moment ago he had stood in a little wooden hut awaiting the arrival of anyone so foolish as to come for him, he now stood outside. The material against his skin felt foreign; soft, yet stiff and he gripped something in his hand other than a spear. He glanced down: a suit; a suit and a briefcase and a woman?

"Get back inside; please get back inside." she whispered. Kurtz glanced up at the red- brick building in front of him- _Toronto Psychiatric_ _Health Facility_ his mind supplied.

The woman opened the book, held it out "Get back inside." She commanded.

"No." he replied, striding towards his new home, finally free in a world as twisted and damaged as he. Here he was a Titan.


End file.
